


Nothing gold can stay

by magical_realism27



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Date, Fluffy, Season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-08 00:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magical_realism27/pseuds/magical_realism27
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeff and Britta try to go on an actual date during the year of secret sex.<br/>**<br/>He holds the door open for her as they leave the apartment and she can’t shake the foreboding sense of dread and carefully constructed dynamics shifting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing gold can stay

**Author's Note:**

> My first time posting on here! Also my first time writing Jeff/Britta, judge accordingly.  
> Enjoy!

_Text message 3:42_

_Jeff: What are you doing?_

_Text message_ _3:43_

_Britta: Just got home_

_Text message 3:43_

_Jeff: Want to go out tonight?_

_Text message 3:43_

_Britta: Out-out?_

_Text message 3:45_

_Jeff: Yeah._

_Text message 3:45_

_Britta: Like a date?_

_Text message 3:46_

_Jeff: Yeah. Is that weird?_

_Text message 3:52_

_Britta: Kinda_

_Text message 3:52_

_Jeff: Pick you up at 7_

 

            He gets to her place at 7:18.

She doesn’t know how serious this… thing is supposed to be, but she’s dressed accordingly. Her favorite black top that makes her breasts look great, worn so much its gray at the pits. And her best pair of jeans, the ones from Nordstrom’s her mother bought her when they took her nephews shopping, like she was a sticky-faced kid too.

           

            “You’re late.” She chastises in lieu of a greeting, even though she _just_ finished curling her hair and her shoes aren’t on.

            “You’re annoying.” Jeff retorts, reaching for his phone.

            “You’re paying.”

 

            He holds the door open for her as they leave the apartment and she can’t shake the foreboding sense of dread and carefully constructed dynamics shifting. Britta hadn’t been on a real, actual date since… well, since she and Jeff started sleeping together clandestinely. She just couldn’t fit it into her schedule. It was always classes, her diner shift, hanging out with the group while texting Jeff the dirty things she planned on doing with him back at her apartment, to see if she could get him to blush. Not a lot of time for wooing. But this date thing, it was so out of the blue that it made her chest hurt. She hadn’t let herself wonder what it would be like to be Jeff Winger’s girlfriend since she had put both her feet and a bit of leg in her mouth at the end of the year dance. And maybe once or twice over the summer. Maybe.

            But Britta was trying to be grown-up about this, not some commitment-phobic woman rounding on thirty years of age who waited tables in short skirts for extra tips so she could continue heating her one room apartment and paying for cat food. Besides, spending three consecutive nights binging on Doritos while watching _Angel_ episodes was closer to the behavior of an eighteen year old with time to spare.

 

Then again, so was going on a date with your narcissistic, borderline-sociopathic fuck-buddy.

           

            Jeff doesn’t say where they’re going, so Britta doesn’t ask. She just fiddles with the radio and tries desperately to ignore how tightly Jeff’s clutching the steering-wheel. Soon, Florence Welch is crooning through his Lexus’s speakers and Jeff is groaning. Loudly.

 

            “Driver picks radio station. Haven’t you ever heard that rule?” He complains, reaching for the knob.

            “Um, the girl picks the station when the guy wants to get laid at the end of the night. Chivalry, Winger.”  Britta smacks his hand away.

            “Classy.” He rolls his eyes and his hands are back on the wheel, knuckles white.

            “This song is amazing. You should be glad I’m not forcing you to listen to Cher Lloyd or The Wanted or whatever the teenagers you date listen to nowadays.”

            “’Nowadays?’ You’re such an old person. And I do not date teenagers.” Jeff rolls down the windows and Britta closes her eyes, letting the chill of winter bite at her face.

            The drive was short, and they pull into the lot of some dive bar that Britta remembered taking a cab to so she could retrieve her car one Sunday, and not much else. She’s glad she can blame the wind for her red face.

            “This is your idea of a real date? Wow, the conversation must be interesting, because the sex isn’t that great either.” Britta wraps her scarf tighter around her neck as they walk into the night, and she can’t help but feel comforted by his barking laugh. Maybe they could be normal on this date, be _them_. Not two adults, stuck in place, pretending to be teenagers pretending to be cool.

 

            This was definitely the bar. She remembers the old jukebox and the framed picture of a cactus in black and white. She remembers being here on a Saturday night, alone, just looking at the picture and it making her so maudlin she thinks _fuck it_ and orders a third vodka cranberry.

Jeff tries to carefully shake his navy blue gloves off his hands, probably because they’re Armani or something. At least they’re not fingerless. Britta removes hers with her teeth and sits at a vinyl red stool.

 

            “Okay, Jeff. What gives?”

            “Specifically?”

            “Please.”

            He sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. “I thought you’d like this place. It’s very you.” He doesn’t seem apologetic or embarrassed or sarcastic or Jeff-like.

“How? Old? Run-down? Soaked in many different kinds of alcohol?”

“I’m-I’m not very good at this.” He says so very quietly. And Britta wants to make a joke or something, but instead she takes his hand and leads him to the men’s room. Because she’s Britta Perry and that’s what she does.

            “Next weekend,” he breaths against her neck, both hands struggling with her bra clasp “I’ll take you somewhere for dinner.”

“No.” Britta decides, swatting his hands away and undoing her bra herself. She averts her gaze from him. “Or yes. As long as you don’t call it a date.” He shoves her against the bathroom wall again.

            “Fine, we’ll go somewhere that serves jalapeno poppers or whatever you plebeians like to eat.”

Britta leans her head on the cool, graphitized wall and laughs. So she can’t do adult or meaningful yet, but maybe she can do carb drenched entrées with a man who can’t do it either.


End file.
